Chapter Four
Here’s to New Haven and Boston
And the turf that the Puritans trod.
In the rest of Mankind
Little virtue they find
But they feel quite chummy with God.
—Walter Foster Angell
Draper’s Meadow, Virginia
They’d driven back from the Boston area in fifteen hours, after which the Old Man had retired to his whirlpool to try to at least reduce the pain in his back. It helped but . . .
Not enough; the massage therapist is just so much better.
While the whirlpool was doing its thing, swirling and bubbling away the very worst of the aches and pains, the Old Man stared up at the ceiling, mentally reviewing various findings he’d come to in terms of where to put his money, in 1965 or wherever the date led to, to maximize profits here and now.
I know of ten potentially really good investments, with huge rates of return: Philippine Telephone and Telegraph, Apple, Dell, Microsoft, Amazon, Berkshire Hathaway, Google, Facebook, Bitcoin, or crypto, more generally, and Tencent, in Hong Kong.
But how do I get a brokerage house—no, can’t be one, has to be one each or someone will start to notice a pattern . . . no, even that’s bullshit. When you leave instructions in 1965 to buy something that won’t exist for thirty or more years, that is a pattern, all on its own, a crystal ball pattern.
And what that means is that I cannot be one hundred percent sure that they’ll even follow my instructions, since who, after all, believes in crystal balls?
There’s only one really outstanding investment that I know of, that already exists, doesn’t need any highly suspicious letters of instruction, and has a huge rate of return. Berkshire Hathaway is pretty much it; it already exists in 1965, has minor ups and downs but overall huge rates of growth, on the order of twenty-nine thousand times over, and doesn’t need any crystal balls in operation. Warren Buffett, it is.
And what that means is a return of about a billion and a half or so on fifty thousand. No, wait, more than that, especially with instructions to reinvest the dividends. Oh, wait; no, Buffett doesn’t pay dividends. If you want money you sell stock. Still . . . pretty good rate of return.
But it’s not as good as it could be. I don’t necessarily want to stay back there long enough to play the futures game, but horse racing? Why not? It’s legal enough. Fun for the kids. It’s also corrupt as hell and everyone knows it. But with a bunch of small bets, on win, place, and show, without showing off with Trifectas or any of the fancy stuff, I ought to be able to increase my fifty thousand a good deal. Hmmm . . . no, the IRS is extremely interested in people who win at the track. No horses. No dog races, either.
Play the number, the parimutuels? My first thought is no, I don’t think so; that’s all Mafia and Murphia and they’re likely to take a personal interest in anyone who does too well at what ought to be a losing game. Well . . . maybe a couple of minor plays there. But only that. Or one serious one? This requires thought.
So there’s that part of the plan, no horse or dog betting to increase my capital, but maybe a little side betting with the bookies, parimutuels and sports, to avoid taxes on winnings, and then dump it all into Berkshire Hathaway before we come back.
But before I write off futures, let’s see about what was hot back then.
He stopped thinking for a while, as the jets and bubbles eased away his pain. When he resumed thought, it was with, And let’s be honest about the whys of the matter. I don’t really need the money, not to live comfortably enough for the years I may have left. But the consensus for maintaining the country, even the consensus for civilization around the world, is breaking down. Crassus suggested it, count no man wealthy who cannot maintain an army at his own expense. And forty percent of the country expects to have to take up arms against the government; talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy! But if I can squeeze as much out of this foray as I think I can, I can afford the private army—big brigade, small division’s worth—and the kernel of civilization that will keep my children and grandchildren safe, fed, and healthy. This I could not do with what I have.
“Hmmm . . .” he muttered aloud. “Best add a trip to hit up the Boston Herald for the numbers for 1964, 1965, and 1966. Fortunately, I don’t have to find horse racing results for that long a period of time.
“Back to the computer, I suppose. But then, is it wise to do much off-track betting when there’s perfectly legal betting in the form of futures options, and those allow margins? Nope, have to limit it. Note to self; pay for access to the Wall Street Journal’s archives. Yeah, commodities futures.”
Draper’s Meadow, Virginia
Before leaving again to continue preparations, the Old Man took them all out for ice cream. This was merely pretextual, though; he really wanted to give them final instructions away from any prying eyes and overly eager ears. His son-in-law was currently deployed to Afghanistan, and his daughter staying at his house both to take care of her widowed father and, frankly, to save some money on housing while her husband was gone. He didn’t want his daughter figuring out what was going on with her children.
“Okay, kids,” he said, once they were in the Avalon and alone, “I’m heading back to New England to gather material, money, and information. In the interim, I’ve sent Juliana a number of links for online instructional material on lockpicking, which is—and I cannot overstate this—critical for our little trip. I’ve ordered material, pick sets, a snap gun, a half dozen transparent training locks, and a couple of real ones. They’ll all be coming in Juliana’s name. Got it?”
“Yes, Grandpa,” they all said.
“You’ve got to learn to pick locks quickly and quietly. I expect you to spend most of every day until I get back working on this. Am I clear here?”
Again, all agreed.
“If it gets tedious,” the Old Man said, “just think about how much fun we’ll have when we do this.
“Oh, and don’t show the material to your mother.”
Ithaca, New York
The Old Man was on the road, legging it trippingly for a place where they normally had nine months of winter followed by three months of very poor sledding. It was not for nothing that the United States Army had put its cold weather test center not in Alaska, but in upstate New York.
The kids were still, albeit temporarily, back in Virginia, with their mother. The Old Man had purchased a number of locksmith courses and training aids, on which he’d put the three kids to work. So far, Patrick looked to have the greatest potential for it, with the girls not too close behind him.
Here, in Ithaca, there was a table, a chair, a satchel. And two men, one younger, one much older. Otherwise, the room was empty.
“I can’t tell you there’s not a single counterfeit bill in there,” Sam Straus said. “I can tell you that, if there is, whoever made it was damned good, good enough to have me fooled.”
The Old Man took a cashier’s check for the remainder of the cost, sixty-five thousand dollars, and laid in on the table holding the money.
“Would you be insulted if I looked it over?” the Old Man asked, perfectly prepared to take the cashier’s check and leave if the coin dealer objected.
“No, I’d count it, too, and look it all over, for counterfeits, were our positions reversed.”
The Old Man smiled. “Haven’t done this since pulling pay officer as a second lieutenant.”
He pulled the chair out, sat, and proceeded to sort the bills into piles preparatory to going over each of the roughly two thousand, one hundred of them.
“I’ll leave you alone while you count,” said Sam. “You don’t need the distraction.”
The Old Man found it a little odd that the coin dealer was more trusting than he was, but took it as a good sign.
“You gave me a little more than I paid for,” said Eisen, finally.
“Don’t sweat it and don’t cry for me,” said Sam. “I’ve made enough on the deal for my trouble.”
“‘A workman is worthy of his hire,’” Eisen quoted. “Good doing business with you.”
Brattleboro, Vermont
It was, in many ways, a quintessentially New England town, Brattleboro, Vermont. Beyond that, the town had more than a few claims to fame, despite its size, and not even including the Vermont Custom Armory.
For one thing, it had been the home of Rudyard Kipling, who’d married a local girl in 1892, written many of his most famous and revered works there, and built a large house just over the town line, in neighboring Dummerston.
For another, it had once been home to the largest organ maker in the United States, the Estey Organ Company. America’s first social security check had gone to a woman of Brattleboro. America’s first female auctioneer had, likewise, been of the town.
It represented a good deal of history for what was, after all, still just a small town.
Here and now, though, on a different table, in a different room, in a different state from New York, lay another treasure. This was, to almost all external appearances, a British Model L34A1, a suppressed Sterling sub-machine gun. The only things to distinguish this, at first glance, were the absence of a wooden foregrip and the hose leading from it to a plate carrier with, apparently, two SAPI plates installed in the front and rear pockets, and one on one side.
Picking up one of the magazines, the Old Man found another distinguishing feature; instead of regular nine-millimeter rounds, the magazine was filled with solid lead slugs. He thumbed one out and felt the front end for the hollow point, then returned it to the magazine. It was only a bit over half the weight one might expect of a solid lead slug. He assumed that the difference was both in the cavity and in the two aluminum balls Jake had mentioned.
“Have we tested to see whether this will expand at the velocities we’re getting?” he asked.
“It will,” Jake answered. “The bullet’s actually travelling faster than any number of hollow points that expand routinely. And this is just soft lead, with those additions I mentioned. Even so, we test fired it in standard ten percent ballistic gelatin. It goes from nine mil to about seventeen, routinely, and sometimes a little more. The lead’s really soft.”
Jake pulled a fired bullet out of a shirt breast pocket and passed it over. The thing was a nearly perfect mushroom, and about twice the size at the expansion as it was at the nine-millimeter base.
Examining the nearly perfect shape, as well as the width, the Old Man said, “I’m genuinely impressed.”
“The swager we’re giving you has dies to use to make the hollow points,” Jake cautioned. “We’re also tossing in a mold that has inserts to make hollow points. They fit in from one side, where the mold’s got openings. That’s all we’re charging you for—well, that and the lead, the aluminum balls, and a good deal of spare lead and balls. The slugs from the mold will be heavier, over three hundred grains, but will still mushroom nicely—very nicely—at seven hundred and twenty or so feet per second.
“We also put two hundred rounds through it without a failure. It’s a pretty good product. The bullets do leave a thin coating of lead, which could build up, so you’ll need to clean them out. Remember, lead is poisonous.
“As you can see, we’ve welded a Picatinny rail to the bottom and attached a green laser to it. Green’s a little easier to see in higher light. It’s zeroed already for one hundred and twenty-five meters.”
“Nice,” Eisen said. “Thanks, muchly.”
“We’ve made you four hundred and fifty projectiles, over and above what we used for testing and what we’ve got for you to test, yourself, here. The tanks are full. You want to try it out?”
“Just try to stop me,” the Old Man said, with a smile.
The entire rig, plate carrier, three tanks, front, rear, and on the left side, hoses, all of it—less the Sterling, itself—together felt like a bit over twenty pounds. Jake confirmed it as, “Twenty and a half, with enough air for nearly three hundred shots.”
“I’ve worn heavier,” the Old Man said, after sliding on the rig.
Even with the suppressor on it, the Old Man hadn’t expected it to be quite so silent. Indeed, it was almost “Hollywood quiet,” so called for Hollywood’s penchant for making suppressors in movies seem a lot more effective than, in fact, they generally were.
Mind, there were suppressors that quiet; the U.S. Navy SEALs had used some during the Vietnam War, called “Hush Puppies,” which were amazing. But, still, that kind of quiet was very rare.
In this case, though, “The cycling of the action is louder than the report,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“So are we, frankly,” said Jake, asking, “How’s the recoil?”
“It feels like a little more than an actual Sterling, but gentler. In general, it’s nothing bad.”
“I test fired a full magazine,” said Jake, “did a complete mag dump, on the opening of a commercial truck tire. I could keep every round inside the opening at seventy-five feet. I suspect I could do the same at seventy-five yards. It just vibrates a little; the recoil, as you say, is nothing bad.”
“Let’s get back to the shop,” the Old Man said. “I want to start work on the M1911 in the certain knowledge that someone, somewhere, in Boston, Albany, Sacramento, Baltimore, and DC—to say nothing of the Left Coast—will lose sleep over the fear that someone, somewhere, has made their own untraceable firearm.”
Jake nodded, then added, “You’ll also want to see if the foot pump we’ve got is good enough. Takes six hundred pumps to fill a tank. Call it fifteen hundred or a few less to fill all three.”
“Hmmm . . . let me think . . . call it thirty pumps a minute, fifty minutes to fill? That sounds fine. It’s two and a half miles’ worth of walking and I won’t have a heavy pack on my back.”
Draper’s Meadow, Virginia
Juliana, as it turned out, was a far better lockpick teacher than she was ever going to be a lockpick. Reading, more or less, from The MIT Guide to Lockpicking, by Ted the Tool, she said to Patrick, “The trick is to find the pin inside the lock that’s binding the most, and push it up, feel the lock move a little when the key pin gets above what they call ‘the sheer line,’ and move the tumbler slightly to lock the key pin above the sheer line. After that you go to the next pin that’s binding the most.”
Nodding, the boy manipulated his pick in the simulated, transparent lock, while staring intently.
“No, Patrick, she said; “you need to close your eyes and do it by feel, alone.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll try.” Shortly after that, a pin moved and the simulated lock shifted.
“See?” said Juliana. “I can’t visualize the inside of the lock. You can. I’d say it’s a girl thing except that Cossima is getting it somewhat and I just am not.”
“Give me some time,” said Cossima. “I’m little. In a year I’ll be better than him.”
The simulated lock Patrick was working on suddenly sprang open.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get the hard one and see if I can use the snap gun.”
661b East Broadway, South Boston, Massachusetts
He’d shown up rather early for this appointment. It wasn’t because he was OCD about timeliness, even though he was. Oh, no; Eisen wanted to case the joint, check for electronic security, and get the exact model of the lock on the back door, to get a copy of that to let the kids practice on.
Security, he was pleased to see, was minimal. And, then, why not? They don’t keep cash here, most of the capital value is in individual expertise, and insurance likely covers anything that’s pilferable. A lock to keep kids out—well . . . most kids, anyway—is probably all they need. Makes perfect sense. And there’s no camera system.
Now, tonight, I’m going to see about getting back in after hours, either from the alley to the west or in from Emerson Street. But for now, let me get a picture of that deadbolt . . .
“Mr. Eisen?”
“Yes, Dijana, I’m more than ready. Shall we go shopping for a ring afterwards?”
“Flirt!” she said, with a smile.
There were narrow alleyways to either side of 661 East Broadway, 661a and 661b. To the west, by 661a, there was a handled door covering the alley. To the east, nearer to the next-door store, Bringing Up Baby, there was no door. Each alley was only as wide as needed to take out a full barrel, weekly, for trash pickup.
While there were no apartments above 661, both east and west of it there were two floors worth.
Probably six apartments, in toto, the Old Man thought.
This only really mattered because the more apartments the more people, the more people the more combined nosiness, likelihood of having a sharp-eared dog, or chance of someone taking the trash out to dump in the can.
It’s a pretty close call, he thought, walking down Broadway late at night, affecting a slight sway to simulate having had one too many. There’s more of a chance of being discovered to the right of the place, on the Deluxe Nails side, against what the map suggests is the location of 661’s gate for trash removal, on the Bringing Up Baby side. I’m going with Katharine Hepburn on this one; Bringing Up Baby, it is.
While there were overhead street lights on many of the lettered cross streets, none of the streetlights here on this section of East Broadway were overhead. Indeed, they gave every impression of having once been gas lamps, later modified for electricity. While, individually, not all that powerful, the sheer number of them made the place quite bright indeed.
And one of them, go figure, is right at the alley I want to duck into. Well . . . nothing to be done for it. And . . . here!
The Old Man glanced across the street to ensure that no one at The Playwright was dining al fresco, in front of the place, then abruptly turned into the alley by Bringing Up Baby. He followed the alley into the bowels of the block. His nose was assaulted by the very strong odor of urine, presumptively human.
Well, there’s my excuse if the cops saw me and follow me in. “I needed to take a piss, officer”—which, come to think of it, is true—“and thought this was a better choice than whizzing right out in the open.”
But no policemen seemed to have noticed or, if they did, they likely thought, Just another drunk who needed to take a leak. Nothing to see here.
He didn’t have a flashlight with him, figuring that, if the police did stop him, the cell phone was innocent while a flashlight was inherently suspicious without some excuse. Instead of saying aloud, “Hey, Siri, turn on torch,” he flicked his cell phone’s light on manually. Then he followed the light down the narrow alley, mentally counting the paces to where the back yard of 661 should begin.
There, to his right, was a gate within a fence. He opened it, gently, then stepped inside. There was a shed directly to his front, with a couple of reeking trash cans inside, sheltering from rain and sun. Past that was a wall and, in that wall, a door.
Bingo.
From 661 East Broadway, the Old Man walked back to his car. From there he got back on Broadway, driving west and then northwest, after the intersection with Dorchester Street, before finally stopping and parking where he could see the police station, formerly Station Six but now called “C-6,” at 101 West Broadway. Parked, he waited until “cruisers,” the local term for police cars, started coming in and unusual numbers of uniformed officers began showing up.
“Okay,” he said to himself, “now we know when to make our move, when the police are at the station, not on the streets. Twenty-three forty-five it is. Now to catch a little sleep and then tomorrow, 30 H Street to rent a parking spot.”
Draper’s Meadow, Virginia
The boy was blindfolded, with his tools in a folding leather case in his pocket and his snap gun in his left hand. In his right, he held a small tension wrench, basically a thin bar with each end twisted to ninety degrees. In front of him was a used deadbolt lock, sent by the old man from Boston, of the same make and model as the one at the place on Broadway.
Juliana stood by, ready to start the stopwatch feature on her phone. “On three,” she said. “One . . . two . . . three.”
Instantly, Patrick felt for the lock, then slid one end of the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyway. He held it there, with one finger of his right hand, while his left hand transferred the snap gun to the bulk of his right.
He inserted the needle of the snap gun into the lock, then pulled the trigger several times, while keeping pressure on the wrench. Nothing happened.
“Crap, need more force,” the boy muttered. Leaving the wrench still in the keyway, he withdrew the needle and spun the notched wheel of the snap gun several turns. Then he reinserted the needle into the keyway, resumed pressure on the wrench, and tried again. At the first pull of the trigger he felt a tiny bit of movement in the keyway. Six more pulls and all the pins had been driven up above the sheer point, allowing the lock’s cylinder to rotate freely.
Juliana stopped the clock on her phone and said, “Not at all bad, little brother. The Old Man will be pleased.”
“How long did it take?” Patrick asked.
“Twenty-three seconds,” she replied.
“I think you’re ready for prime time, Big Brother,” said Cossima.
“Maybe I am,” Patrick agreed, smiling.
Eisen pulled back into his driveway after a week away. After a demonstration from Patrick of his newly acquired skills as a lockpick—“Well done, Grandson; I am impressed!”—he grabbed a bird-headed and very short semi-automatic twelve gauge, a Remington Tac-13, a .380 pistol, Czech, a .32 pistol, Beretta, and a Walther PPK in .22. Along with these he packed sixty rounds of number four buckshot for the twelve gauge, forty of the shortened twelve gauge, and a hundred for each of the pistols, plus another hundred for the newly made M1911 still in the car. The Sterling and its slugs remained in the trunk, with full tanks. The ammunition all went into an ammunition can, along with three magazines per pistol. He finished loading the range box, which had pretty much everything needed, from targets to digital earmuffs, to similarly digital ear buds, to eye protection.
Juliana, who had watched and helped with the loading asked, on their way out to the public range at Jefferson Forest, “Grandpa, if it’s going to be dangerous enough to need all this firepower, maybe it’s too dangerous to actually go through with.”
“Fair observation,” the Old Man conceded. “But I still think we should go. One thing is that, no, old Slocum never told your sister it was very dangerous but only that she didn’t belong. These are different issues. Moreover, yes, while Boston is a good place and Southie maybe more so, still, you never really know about anywhere at any time. And, despite the general situation and higher level of safety there and then, if it did turn out to be dangerous, well, frankly, I’m dangerous, too, old or not, and even more so when I’m properly armed. Which, with these little goodies, I will be. As for any dangers there may be to the gate, itself, your sister went in, spent some time there, and came out fine, so I’m not worried about that.”
“As to why we should go, in the first place, I want to show you the Boston I came from, which I remember as very beautiful and very happy, before the malls killed downtown and then Amazon killed the malls. But in the second place, we’re going back not just with cash, not just with arms, but with knowledge. I intend to turn that knowledge into a very good life for all of you, your parents, and your aunts. We’re going to expand the fifty thousand we’re bringing to several times that, at least, and then we’re going to put it into something that will grow massively, so that when we pull it out, we’ll be very comfortable, indeed.
“Finally, I expect a breakdown in order and civilization here. Security then will depend not on individual arms, but armed organization. I intend to get enough to pay for that . . . for your safety.
“But if you still don’t want to go, Juliana, you can stay behind with your mother, though you have to keep quiet about it.”
The girl’s brown eyes flashed angrily. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to go. I’m just concerned about the risks.”
“Have you ever seen a risk I couldn’t handle?”
“Well . . . no,” she conceded, “but isn’t there a first time for everything, Grandpa?”
“Not for this,” the Old Man assured her.
Jefferson Forest Rifle and Pistol Range,
Montgomery County, Virginia
Neither of the girls, it turned out, was quite up to using the short Remington twelve gauge. They both tried, with only one shell in the shotgun for each, and the recoil was just too much for them. Patrick barely managed it. From there, the Old Man tried mini-shells from Aguila, but those simply would not feed reliably, even with him behind the twelve gauge.
“Okay, this one is mainly backup for me, then. Let’s go to pistols. Patrick, take the M1911, the box of ammunition, and load your magazines. Juliana, it’s the .380 Czech for you. Cossima, yours is the .32 Beretta . . .”
“And now for the fun part,” the Old Man announced. “C’mere, Juliana, and let’s rig you up with the Sterling . . .”
There was a Fish and Game officer with delusions of grandeur who occasionally haunted this particular range. Upon seeing what was obviously automatic fire, and not hearing it, he sauntered over to enquire about paperwork from ATF.
“We don’t need any,” said the Old Man. “This is pneumatic, not a firearm. The suppressor is integral to it, hence cannot be removed to use on a firearm, hence doesn’t need a tax stamp, approval, or anything along those lines.”
“Oh, a lawyer, are we?” Fish and Game sneered. “Well, we’ll just . . .”
“You want my Virginia State Bar number? Do you want to arrest me? Arrest me for having perfectly legal weapons? Are you that eager for me to publicly humiliate you in court? Ready for the lawsuit to follow, and the letter of reprim—”
“All right! All right!” said the wannabe with delusions of grandeur, holding his hands up, palms out, as if fending off a threat. “I was just curious, is all.”
Calming down, Eisen asked, “Would you like to try it out?”
Thought Juliana, And that’s what actually makes him dangerous. As far as the old man is concerned, nobody but God outranks him.
Swaging more ammunition, cleaning the firearms and the Sterling, and pumping the tanks full again occupied the rest of the day and a part of the night. They then packed an old military duffel bag, packed the car, and got a night’s sleep. Moreover, to fool the kids’ mother, they also filled the trunk of the Avalon with camping gear and food, both freeze dried and canned.
“Be back in a couple of weeks, honey,” the Old Man told his surprisingly young-looking daughter, just before taking off.
“Try to stay out of trouble,” she said.
Rest Area, Interstate 81, Southwest of Carlisle, Pennsylvania
“Rehearsal time.”
“Okay, brats, I’m going to stop. When I do, Juliana and Patrick, both of you get out instantly. Juliana, you close your door and help Patrick pull the duffel bag. Cossima, you push from your side. . . .”
“Too slow. Get the bag back in and we’ll do it again . . . and again.”
They drilled this until the kids could have the duffel bag, which wasn’t yet quite as heavy as it would be, out of the car and dragged to cover in under seven seconds.
“Okay, back in the car and get some rest. I’ll get you up when it’s time to stop for chow. And now it’s time to ‘make my’ blue eyes ‘brown.’”
With that, the Old Man took out his normal contacts, which were clear, and flicked them out the window. He then took out a double pair of brown-colored prescription contacts and deftly put them in. He had two sets of replacements for both brown and clear.
“That’s going to take some getting used to, Grandpa,” said Juliana.
Quincy, Massachusetts
There wasn’t all that much in the trunk in the storage locker the Old Man had rented. Some of what there was the kids and he put on, making them properly clothed for 1965. The rest was carried to the car and carefully stowed into the duffle bag, after taking out the .380 and the M1911. Even without those, the duffle bag was now quite full.
The current year was dangerous, much more so than 1965. Because of this, the M1911 was to go into the small of the Old Man’s back. The Czech .380 was Juliana’s, to guard herself, her siblings, and the bag until the Old Man returned from parking the car, the spot being already rented, at 30 H Street Place, less than half a mile to the west of 661 East Broadway.
Patrick had his locksmithing tools in his pockets.
The Old Man took a spin by 101 West Broadway. He circled the building, or maybe better said, rectangled it, just to make sure the new shift was gathering as the first half of the old one was turning in. They were.
No last-minute changes to SOP. Good. “Watch carefully, kids,” he ordered.
From the South Boston police station, he turned right again on West Broadway, following it to the East and West Broadway, Dorchester Street, intersection. There he bore left to follow East Broadway. Up Pill Hill the Avalon went, past the courthouse on the right and the old Gavin mansion on the left. Keeping a strict eye out for police cruisers, he drove past 661, past K and L Streets, and then took a right on M Street, at the southwest corner of what was now known as “Medal of Honor Park.”
From there he went to Fourth Street, taking a right just before Emerson, then following Fourth until it met Emerson again. Bearing right on Emerson he went back to Broadway, which he crossed, turned left, then right again, to follow I Street to Third. On Third he again took a right, travelling east to M Street and the park. There he went right, then right again at Broadway, which he followed past I Street to H Street.
“Anybody see any police cars?”
“No, Grandpa,” they all answered.
“Me, neither.”
On H the Old Man turned left, went to Fourth, then to I, and left again to East Broadway.
“Okay, everybody, we’re about one minute out. Get ready.”
He turned right on East Broadway again, then slowed even more than the speed limit required, coming to a complete stop at the old-fashioned, probably formerly gas-powered, lamppost right by 661.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Rehearsals paid off. Terrified half out of their wits, the kids had themselves and the duffle bag outside of the car and hidden between two parked cars in mere seconds, faster than they ever had in rehearsals.
“Be back in a few,” Eisen said. “Remember, Juliana’s in charge.”
With that, he turned back onto East Broadway, then left on K, and via as direct a route as possible, to the rented parking spot at 30 H Street Place.
Getting out of the car, he stuffed the M1911 into the back of his trousers, shut and locked the doors, and then began walking briskly for 661 and his grandchildren.
“Hey, old timer, got any money?”
There in the shadows, and in the vacuum that criminals knew would be left by the police change of shift, were two rather scruffy looking sorts, probably eighteen or nineteen, each wielding a knife.
The Old Man said, while reaching behind him, “I really don’t have time for this. If you want to see the morning, get out of my way.”
The scruffier looking of the two laughed. “Oh, an old fart who thinks he’s tough. We’ll show you tou—”
The old fart was surprisingly quick. One second, he was several feet in front of the thugs; a split second later, after what seemed like a blur, he was not. Instead, he was right in front of one of them, with his left hand gripping the boy’s hair and the right forcing the muzzle of his .45 through his lips and teeth. Somewhere in that lunge, the young man heard the safety being flicked off.
“Drop the knives, boys.”
Twin clatters on the concrete said the toughs had obeyed.
After a sharp intake of breath, the street tough said to his colleague, around the pistol “Don’ do any’hin’, Mi’ey.” Then to the old man, he said, We wuh jes jokin’, yah know, zir . . . jus’ ’avin a li’le . . . sir . . .” The pistol withdrew, only to be pressed against his nose. “Please don’t kill me, sir.” The street tough started to snivel. “Please don’t . . . I have a mother. . . .”
“Shut up. I told you I don’t have time for this.” Roughly the Old Man spun the punk around, ordering, “Get on your knees. Yes, you, too,” he told the other one, pointing the pistol in his direction.
“If you believe in God, start praying.”
Then, because the 1911 wasn’t suppressed, and only because it wasn’t suppressed, the Old Man decided to spare their lives. He raised the pistol on high, then brought it down with close to skull-splitting force onto the head of the main would-be mugger. Blood, hair, and some flesh stuck to the magazine and the mag well.
In the old days, I could have just shot them and nobody would have seen anything even if they were standing right here. Now the place is full of never sufficiently to be damned yuppies and dinks, and they can be counted on to complain and possibly provide eyewitness accounts.
Sensing the other one, Mikey, was about to bolt, he said, “Don’t even think about it. Your friend will live, though I don’t envy him his headache. You will live, too, unless you make a run for it. If you do, I’ll shoot you to bring you down—and, no, I rarely miss and never at this range—then shoot you again, in the head, to make sure. Then I’ll shoot this asshole who saw my face.”
Mikey just nodded, repeating, as his friend had, “Just please don’t kill me.” Then the boy started blubbering.
“What the hell is wrong with Southie, these days, anyway?” the Old Man asked, disgusted. “In the old days you’d have already done your time in the Army or Marines and not be such a little wimp. Oh, well.” Eisen raised the pistol high.
Wham. Mikey’s unconscious body melted to the concrete sidewalk.
I so did not have the time for this.
With that, the Old Man began to jog. And I am way too old for running, too. GodDAMNED knees! And moving quick for those thugs didn’t help any, either.
“Grandpa’s running late,” Cossima said, voice beginning to break. Just because she wasn’t afraid of anything for herself didn’t mean she didn’t worry about those she loved.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick reassured her. “Don’t forget that the old guy in Second Hand Lions was modelled after our grandfather . . . or should have been.”
“Grandpa says it wasn’t and that he’s not that strong.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Patrick replied, “he’s that mean and then some.”
Hearing footsteps pounding up the street, Juliana tightened her grip around the Czech .380. If someone was pursuing her grandfather, she was going to put a stop to that.
And then came the voice, a little out of breath. “Had a bit of trouble. Not too much. You brats ready to go?”